The Difference Between Winter and Summer
by pearlbutton328
Summary: what holly j and fiona and declan like.


title**: the difference between winter and summer**

pairings**: holly j/declan, holly j/fiona**

warnings**: infidelity, no actual dialogue, the tiniest smidgen of incest**

a/n: **i've been wanting to write this since, gosh, that one episode two weeks ago when fiona went back to degrassi. only just got the inspiration to write it tonight. also, i'm terribly sorry, seddie fans. hopefully writing this small piece will get me back into writing for good. or, at least for another few months.**

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Holly J likes winter very much. Winter is puffy air expelled from between stark red lips, thick scarves wrapped countless times around vulnerable collarbones (and the softer the cashmere, the better), and looking out the window of the Coyne's modest-sized winter cottage firmly tucked in the country, stifling a smile under sharp teeth as fat snowflakes fall, blanketing everything serenely white. Winter makes sipping nonfat, double-shot mochas topped with the slightest bit of whipped cream throughout the day easier. Crawling underneath the thick duvet and sighing at the feeling of instant warmth greeting her nude body happens more regularly when she's spent the better part of the day covering it up under sweaters and wool skirts, stockings fastened snugly around her thighs with the aid of garters.

More importantly, winter makes falling seamlessly into his arms feel ten times more luxurious.

She likes it when he is spooned against her back, hot mouth pressed near her ear so that she can hear each of his low exclamations, his pants and pleading moans. It's so good that she can barely stand it, her grip tightening in the bedding, twisting it into a wrinkled clump. When he slides a strong, long-fingered hand between her thighs and lifts one of her legs up to move faster, hit deeper, they both suck in loud breaths. Holly J's gasp gets caught in her throat, warped into a soft squeak when he loosely fists his other hand into her hair, pulling her head back and licking up the exposed column of her throat.

She likes when he's around her, in her, lips on her neck and breathing her in and out, consuming her. She feels safe, protected in the darkness and quiet of the vast room when he presses the hard line of his chest against her, almost splitting her in two with his relentless thrusts, bringing her closer to completion with his fingers circling and rubbing her nub and setting her skin aflame. She can sense when he's near, and all she has to do is whimper his name and he'd come crashing down like dominoes.

He likes to come inside her, his seed filling her in spurts that are strong and hot, one by one by two, warming her insides as her name is whispered like a prayer until she feels her skin tighten, heat up, until he pulls out and nudges her on her back and climbs atop her, enveloping her in his heated skin and under his heated lips for as long as it takes for them both to be ready to go at it again.

He always folds his tongue around her name as if it's ethereal, too good to be true, and he always releases inside her.

Fiona doesn't like that.

Fiona once whispered to her that she was filthy, her hissing breath cool against the shell of Holly J's ear as she pressed against her back. Holly J's pelvis ached as it was brutally shoved and held against the unforgiving wood of the low vanity, maybe ached for a different reason as she watched in the reflection of the oversized mirror Fiona's hands twisting under her unbuttoned blouse, bringing her nipples to hard peaks with deft fingers. The female twin bit sharply on her earlobe before stepping away, leaving Holly J shuddering against the lost feel of her body as she lifted up her skirt and sneered, spat things like, _completely unacceptable, filthy, did I ever once seem to you to be the type of girl who liked to see the evidence of her brother leaking out your cunt, how does it feel to be a dirty whore, hmm?_ and as soon as Holly J pleaded, _I'm sorry, please, Fiona, please_, she was turned around, her skirt bunched up around her stomach.

Fiona's fingers were like ice against her skin, holding her thighs open as she licked none-too-gently past her folds, her nose expelling hard breaths against Holly J's clit while her tongue wriggled inside her channel, her lips sucking out the seed of her own damn brother. The glass of the mirror against her back chilled Holly J to the bone, but not nearly as much as Fiona's delirious, smutty moans as she rolled Holly and Declan's mixed fluids to the back of her throat. Holly J shut her eyes tight, quivered as goosebumps made its way across her arms, down her breasts, and she tried not to make a sound as she teetered over the edge, one fist stuffed into her mouth to keep quiet.

Besides, it wasn't as if Fiona wasn't making enough noise for the both of them.

She kissed her way up Holly's stomach, nudged her shirt out of the way before latching her mouth over Holly J's pert nipple, and then whispered as she tugged her blouse off her shoulders, _my turn_.

They stumbled to the bed in their haste to rid their clothing, their fingers intertwining as they landed (the engagement ring cutting into Holly's skin), and Holly J gasped as her legs tangled in Fiona's cold ones.

It's not Fiona's fault that winter makes her touches nearly unbearable.

This is why Holly J likes summer best. Aside from the sometimes sweltering temperatures, endless sunscreen applications, and the great amount of concealer she dabs on her face to hide the flaws in her skin that comes out when the sun does, the season does her no wrong. Summer, to her, is the late night bonfires that she has yet to grow out of, table fans that make that delightful little hum as she works on her dissertation for Yale for the fifth month in a row, the heat needed to toss back smooth glasses of beer or cheap wine (the kind that Declan begrudgingly buys for her because she doesn't need rich or fancy alcohol) when she feels the need to unwind.

He comes into her room overlooking the wide campus of her residential college late at night, squeezes her shoulders in his palms and burrows his nose in her hair, breathes deeply. She makes a half-hearted attempt at brushing him away_, it's too hot for this_, hisses as his fingers meet the bare skin of her arms, the trail nearly blistering as his fingers make their way down to the hem of her shirt.

Sometimes Holly J prefers Fiona's cool touch over Declan's heated one. But sometimes, even in the thick of a heat wave, she doesn't mind his, not at all. Not even when his lips pepper her neck, leaving behind scorching marks, even blushes a deep, unflattering red when he pulls her blouse over her head and tugs her body flush against his, murmuring how much he loves when her freckles come out with the sun. Not even three-digit temperature could keep her from craving him, sometimes.

He pushes her to the bed, climbs atop gingerly (because, oh yeah, her bed squeaks, and they're sure that the person rooming next door would be able to hear it), and kisses her deeply when she has her jeans undone and pushed down, tangled around one ankle. He likes to tease her a little bit, hooks one hand behind her knee, hitching her leg around his waist before slotting his hardness against the damp crotch of her panties once, twice, taunting her about what's sure to come. She would call his name, but she knows how much he likes to hear her say it near the end, when her voice is shot and her breathing is shaky and how, when she finally says it, it comes out longingly, tapering off into a whine, a whimper.

She is like elastic around his fingers, squeezing snug before letting loose as he twists them up into her, and she doesn't mind—even blushes—as he mouths wetly, clumsily at her neck, his concentration obviously on pleasuring her. She gets even more hot looking at him in his polo, so she gets rid of it, and to reward her, sweat speckled across his forehead, he crooks his fingers and runs them over the spot deep inside her that makes her body arch up, her teeth clench, and she knows, must know, that she's flooded his fingers with her juices.

He's fumbling with his jeans, getting them open, and that's all it takes for Holly J to crash, to have her crying out to some deity above until he silences her with his lips, lifts her hips in his hands, and sinks into her as if she were butter, melting her insides.

The headboard knocks repeatedly against the wall and the mattress squeaks in time with her squeaks, but then, they've stopped caring about the person rooming next door, anyway.

Fiona doesn't have to worry about anyone living next door to her, not in her high loft with those soundproof brick walls, as far from another human being as one can be in a residential building, but Fiona also likes to pretend that she _cares_ about strangers hearing her in the throes of passion, so she usually leaves her tilt and turn windows open. There's typically more noise coming in than going out, but Holly J thinks that Fiona could care less about specifics when she's _this close_ to losing it, or making Holly lose it.

And Holly J is really close to losing it.

The air from outside is stifling, humid, and it's all she can do just to remember to breathe it deeply into her mind quite obviously depraved of oxygen. If she were thinking straight, surely she would be doing more than whimpering in time with Fiona, arching up as the dark-haired woman pressed her dripping cunt on Holly's stomach. But she's got to admit that she likes this, this, seeing Fiona's dark lashes flutter against her flushed cheeks as she moved minutely atop Holly, likes keeping her hand above her waist so that there's less temptation to touch her throbbing center, teeth bitten into her lower lip to rein in some of her frustration at holding back. She yearns for someone to touch her, something sinking into her down there, hard and hot and electrifying.

Her mind immediately moves to Declan. If Declan were here, would his heat contrast wildly against Fiona's coolness? And what would Holly J become? Their personal storm? Perhaps. They're rich enough; they could afford their own cloud storm.

Holly J stifles back a laugh and rises farther onto her elbows, making Fiona slide back, leaving a rapidly cooling line of wetness down Holly's stomach. Fiona gasps and her fingers touch Holly's neck, giving her precious cool air, and her eyes snap open as she moans, _oh, Holly J. oh._

It's Holly's turn to close her eyes, to block out the vivid image of Fiona riding her, though she can see the red of her lids. The lamp is not off because Fiona never turns the light off when they're together. It's like sunlight burning into her eyes, but then maybe Holly never gets enough sunlight even when the sun's up and glaring because she finds herself craving this—the high-pitched moans, the light, even the near frigidity of Fiona's touch—as the months move into August, move into September. _Beat slow, my feeble heart_, she finds herself thinking.

She keeps her eyes squeezed shut, and when Fiona presses down, Holly pushes up, and when Fiona comes, Holly J comes, too.

Before she leaves, she takes her ring off Fiona's finger and puts it back where it belongs, straightens her hair, and gets a long series of kisses goodbye at the front door. Sharp teeth cut off her eager smile as she makes her way home, to the other third of her.

Holly J really loves the summer. Summer is her white wedding, as clean and pure as the winter snow that falls around the cottage in January. Summer will be her anniversary of being Mrs. Holly J. Coyne. Summer will be the perfect time of the year to have Fiona's hands all over her overheated flesh, lips cooling her, kisses allowing her to fully breathe.

She likes that.


End file.
